The Warrior and the Druidess (2 page)

Following him inside, Tanwen crossed the stone floor to the amber blaze dancing around a black cauldron, which hung over the hearth. She glanced at a large, rectangular shield mounted on the wall.

A man, sitting on a pile of lush furs near the fire, addressed his spearmen. Dressed in a short-sleeved tunic, his legs were bare. Gold rings adorned each of his toes. Tattoos covered his arms and his legs. The largest swirl began small and curved into a larger loop. It had a little swirl for wings, and long, thin lines as legs. This symbol told Tanwen that his patron goddess was Corra, the crane goddess, and this bespoke of his closeness to the otherworld and his gift of prophecy.

She shifted her gaze to the next tattoo, which had two connected circles, like two wheels; she counted five knotted swirls within each. From the image of a four-legged animal with a prominent tail and a narrow head—a wolf,—she knew his last five ancestors were all cousins who married each other. This meant that he was fifth generation of that bloodline, which began with his great-great-great-great-grandmother from the house of Wolves.

The gold torque banding his neck gleamed in the firelight. “Welcome to my village. I am Calach, Chief of the Caledonii.” His long hair, streaked with gray, matched his pointed beard. “But do not tell me who you are, nor why you are here, until you have eaten. A banquet of roasted boar awaits in the feasting hall.”

The two Silure guards followed her to the rectangular, wooden hall. There, she sat on a lush fox fur at a small wooden table. A pang of hunger came over her as she was served warm, fresh bread, chewy boiled beef from the cauldron and a juicy joint of roasted boar. After eating her fill, she washed it down with a cupful of thick mead.

Then, along with Huctia and Gethin, she went back to the wheelhouse. She nodded to the chief as she entered. “I am Tanwen ferch Wena ferch Boudica, and I have traveled far, from the snow-topped peaks of the grandmother mountain of Eryri.”

“Greetings. We of the Caledonii know of Boudica, and have long mourned her passing.”

“My thanks, Chief Calach.”

“Sit,” Calach said.

“You know of my grandmother.” The druidess sat down in front of Calach. “I am here at her urging.” Her guards sat down beside her.

Briskly, the chief gestured to his spearmen to leave. Only Tanwen, Gethin, Huctia and the Caledonii chief remained.

The chief leaned his broad body toward Tanwen. “What message does Boudica send from the otherworld?”

She kept her gaze locked on Calach. “My ancestor, Boudica, foresees you will stop the Romans from coming north, but only by uniting the tribes into one army.”

“It is good. I have given some thought to this idea based on Boudica’s army of mixed Albion tribes.” He took a swig of mead. “And so you come to aid us with your grandmother’s blessings and your druid gifts.”

She took a deep breath. This still didn’t make sense to her, but she had to do as her ancestor bade. “My grandmother sent me to marry your son and keep her bloodline alive. Somehow, this will thwart the Romans.”

Calach’s brows arched. “In truth?”

“This is what Boudica bids.” Tanwen shrugged her shoulders. “I must do as she wills.”

“You may deem you need to marry Brude, but I know not how he will take the news.” His mouth quirked as if he tried to stifle a laugh. “His ancestors have not told him to wed you. But, I will speak to him.”

“My thanks for your kindness and your hospitality.”

Calach nodded. “Did you enjoy the wild boar you feasted on? Brude brought one like it back from his hunt to feast on tomorrow. You were with him, I believe.” His eyes twinkled.

Brude?
He was the warrior who made her blood boil? She was sure her eyes were as large as apples. “By the Goddess.”

Calach called the spearmen back and commanded them to show her, Huctia, and Gethin to a small wheelhouse. It would be hers as long as she stayed with the Caledonii.

Brude entered the wheelhouse and sat at the fire across from his father. Now, he’d find out the real reason the druidess was here.

Calach gazed into his son’s eyes. “It is strange for a novice druidess to travel all the way here from the Silure lands.”

“She wants something,” Brude said. “I do not like it. I fear she has already enchanted me. As we walked together, I could not tear my gaze from her. I was lost in her piercing eyes and found myself wondering at the hue. For though I clearly saw they were brown, at other times they seemed so much lighter. I swear, they appeared blue at times and green at others.”

“Her eyes change colors.” Calach picked up the clay pitcher and brimmed his cup with mead. “Druids are known for such things.”

“It is true, but there is more. I tried to place the shape of her eyes. There is something so rare about them. But it is not that they are unusually large, nor is the shape exotic in any way; it is the perfection of shape and size. Are they not the eyes of a goddess?”

“She is Boudica’s granddaughter.”

“That must be it.” Brude reached out for the jug sitting on the floor and filled his cup to the brim. “So, do you think she is telling the truth about that?”

“Aye, she is a druidess. They do not lie.”

“Druids are well known for speaking in rhymes and answering questions with questions so no one understands what they truly mean.” Brude took a gulp of mead.

“She has not done that.” Calach grinned. “When it comes to who she is and why she is here, she has been most plain.” He laughed heartily. “There have been no rhymes or guessing games there. She has made it quite clear. She is here to wed you because her ancestor told her to.”

Mead sputtered out of Brude’s mouth. “She wants marriage? With me?”

“Yes.” Calach rubbed his chin. “Boudica’s spirit appeared to the lass and commanded a union to keep the queen’s bloodline alive.”

“Marriage to a druidess, with secrets and spells beneath my own roof? I won’t have it. Never.” He set his cup of mead down. “Sire, it is moon madness. All of Caledonia honors Boudica for her battle prowess and courage against the Romans, but I will not let her ghost dictate whom I shall wed.”

“No, you will never marry her. You are just passing time, speaking on and on about her eyes.” Calach rocked with laugher. “And what is this of her eyes? Have you not taken a look at the rest of her?”

Brude couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Father, I have noticed her body.” It heats my blood to a boil, he thought.

His mind wandered.
There is an immortal perfection. Though she has a slender build, aspects which are ample on a fuller figure stand out on her as well. Her breasts appear small until you truly gaze at them, and then they are a feast, an unexpected treat for the eyes. Plump and full and as ample as breasts can be on a body so thin. They jiggled when she walked beside me; it was all I could do to not reach out and touch them. And when my gaze lowers to her hips, there again, though she seems thin as a pole, there are slight, yet vividly enticing curves. I long to place my hands on her firm, tight hips, my palms itch and burn for the touch of her flesh.
Brude leaned his head back then dumped the entire cup of mead into his mouth. It burned a trail of fire down his parched throat. “Mayhaps I will marry her.” He didn’t laugh.

Calach was silent. The unmistakable twinkle in his eyes was his only response.

* * * * *

Brude walked to the clearing on the other side of a cluster of wheelhouses. There, Tanwen stood before the cauldron, in the open air, brewing a mix of blue woad dye while her two guards tended to the horses.

He gazed across the amber blaze at her and basked in the heat of the flames. As he listened to the crackle and spit of the fire, he realized there was an easy way to discover how powerful a druid she was. He needed to know if she could enchant him, read his mind, or control his dreams. A good warrior never underestimates his foe. “On Ynys Mon,” he paused and looked deep into her eyes, “were you chosen to gather the all heal?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I am but a novice, but I accompanied the arch druid when he reaped the mistletoe with the golden sickle.” She stood over the cauldron of dye and stirred the thickening brew with the wooden spoon she’d tied onto a large stick.

A novice mayhaps, but still Boudica’s granddaughter, he thought. He sensed that there was power in her. “The druids do not share the secrets of the mistletoe.”

“It is a sacred plant. If handled by those unknown to it, mistletoe can be deadly.” She withdrew the spoon from the dye and checked the thickness of the woad paste.

“The all heal is poisonous, yet druids use it to save lives. If I ate it, I would die,” he said, “but if you—an oak seer—gave it to me it would cause no harm.”

“It is true, for I would brew the right portion— no more than six pinches of chopped mistletoe soaked in a beaker of water. And the tea is brewed from one pinch of mistletoe leaves in a cup of boiled water, with no more than two cups had in a day.”

He gasped. “I am honored. Druids seldom share sacred secrets with anyone.”

“You are to be my husband; I will share all with you.” Tanwen flashed a challenging grin.

His heart leapt in his chest.
Gods, this woman is dangerous
. “You still insist that I am to wed you.”

“Yes.” Her warm, sultry voice made his skin tingle.

“Boudica would not have sent me here if it were not to be.”

He had to be strong. He could not let this creature and her druid magic enchant him into a marriage he didn’t want. “You shared your secret with me; I shall share mine with you.” He leaned closer. “Heather mead.”

“I have heard of a mead brewed from heather that makes the Picts invincible to their foes.”

“It is so.” She’s falling for the trap, he thought. “As mistletoe grows on oak, moss grows on heather,” he continued. “Bees feed on the heather and make a special treat—heather honey. We brew mead from that honey, along with heather tops. It is all we need—no barley.”
A few cups of heather mead, and she’ll answer all my questions.

Her bright eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Due to the moss on the heather.”

“Yes, that is the secret. It also makes the mead stronger.”

Tanwen smiled. “Let us drink of this heather mead together.”

“I do not think you can handle it.” He prodded on purpose to ensure she would drink with him.

“I have drunk mistletoe afore, stronger than what is given to the sick. I use it to aid travel through the oak door.”

“You must be a powerful druidess if you have crossed the veil to the other world.”

“The mistletoe helped. If I can handle it, I am certain to be able to hold my own against your mead.”

“We will see.” Brude stood and then walked away, but quickly returned. He held a skin of mead and two smooth, wooden cups, which he brimmed with the golden drink. He handed one to her.

The sweet smell of fermented honey perfumed the air and dulled the strong odor of woad dye.

She raised her cup high, flashing Brude an enticing smile. “With this draft, drawn from the well of wisdom, I fill the cauldron of my spirit with the brew of inspiration.” Tanwen pressed the rim of the cup against her lips and tossed the golden liquid down her throat in one motion. Brude did the same.

The drink freed his spirit from the constraints of his mind. Unable to think, he watched her breasts bounce and her hips sway as she began to dance.

She gazed deep into his eyes. “We enter the world naked, in our natural state. Only when we shed our outer clothing, can we know our true selves.” Tanwen licked a drop of honey mead from the corner of her mouth. “I want to know you.” She was as a red flame, flickering freely this way and that as she danced.

Fire raged in him. His groin tightened and swelled. Hastily, he filled another cup and drank it dry. He didn’t notice Tanwen’s first cup was still half full.

With the confidence of those whose ancestors watched over them, and with the boldness brought by the heather mead, Tanwen threw her plaid cloak aside and seductively shed her tunic dress. “When the mead was brewed, the cauldron was hot.”

His erection throbbed. His heart raced. He wanted to grab this woman.

With lithe movements, she danced around the fire. Her breasts jiggled for Brude, and her legs leapt as they would move in love play. “Do you feel the heat flowing underneath your skin?” she rasped.

He burned like a flame and couldn’t form a solid thought. Blood pounded in his head. He yanked the wool tunic off his hot skin and threw it to the ground. He stepped out of his checkered braies and stood fully nude before her, stiff and pulsating with need.

He gazed into her eyes.

She stopped dancing. After a long breath, she refilled his cup and hers. “Drink.”

Together they gulped down the golden mead. Never—not once—did they tear their eyes away from each other.

“As the mead flows through you, let the spirit fill you.” Tanwen walked over to the cauldron and dipped her hand in the gooey, blue dye.

Her finger slinked down his face, streaking both cheeks blue. The woad was warm, her touch hotter. His tinted checks burned. After dipping her hands into the dye again, her ring-bedecked fingers danced over the muscles rippling down his arms, tracing each of his tattoos, following the lines as she painted them blue.

He quivered. The gods shielded him through these symbols. The first was a wolf, with an open mouth drawn as a curve. The second was the boar with a tusk made from a circle with a line drawn though it and two knots on each end. His flesh tingled as she painted the lines of a swirling snake. His arousal throbbed and pained him with the need for release as she traced the last one, a man.

Far more potent than heather mead, the power the woad awoke in the tattoos left him light-headed. He drew in a deep breath to clear his head as she spread her hands over his firm stomach and down his strong legs, coating them blue.

She took a step back and smiled coyly, as if wondering what mischief she could stir up next. With her woad-covered hands, she cupped her breasts, squeezing and massaging the soft, full peaks. He groaned with need. She wrapped her smooth arms around his neck and crushed her lips against his. The softness of her breasts pressed against his chest. Her nipples had tightened to hard points, rubbing against his muscles, imprinting woad dye on his chest and coating the small whorls of hair with blue. Shivers of heat rushed through him.